She
by virusq
Summary: One shot. Carth Onasi wanders the streets looking for hints of Revan's trail. Implied F!Revan/Carth.


**Date**: 07/07/06  
**Title**: "She"  
**Author**: Melissa Russell, virusq (AT) hotmail (DOT) com  
**Characters**: Carth Onasi, Hinted LSF!Revan/Carth  
**Time** **Period**: Old Republic  
**Rating**: PG  
**Notes**: I needed to justify the Male!Revan decision.

--

Donning his battered orange jacket and a worn pair of pants, Admiral Carth Onasi abandoned his military dedication -- and posture -- in attempt to fit in with the crowd. He'd been tracking down various information brokers and well-traveled smugglers with hopes that someone would have news of Revan. Unfortunately, due to his promise, his selection was restricted to whatever scum was stupid enough to work in whatever Republic territory he was stationed at.

In this instance, he had been recommended the services of an up-and-coming Bothan sludge news reporter who seemed to know more about the celebrities she was stalking than their own mothers. He'd reviewed the reports local authorities had filed against her and found it incredibly easy to predict what nightclub she would make her next appearance at. Driven by the desire for information and the need for a stiff drink, he found himself seated next to her at the club's strategically lit bar.

Despite the fact that her fur was dyed in a manner that competed with the sun and that her clothing fit three sizes too small, it was her age that caught him off guard. He was pretty sure she wasn't old enough to fly, let alone be in the vicinity of a cantina. She was a regular, though: the bartender had served her drink before she had finished sitting down.

He considered initiating conversation in a subtle manner, but a direct approach was much more successful: "Hey, beautiful."

Offended, she deliberately looked around the entire room before granting the graying man a response: "Excuse me?"

"I... was just admiring your... color scheme."

Sipping her drink, she stared at him for a moment; her eyes were the same shade of yellow as the rest of her. "Are you lost? Can I help you?"

"Actually, yes. I'm looking for a friend of mine."

She snorted. "Qel-Droma's dead, old man, get over it."

"I need to find Darth Revan. I'd be willing to pay if you have any information."

Her fur ruffled nervously in recognition and she considered Carth over her drink for a handful of moments. "That kind of information is worth more than you make."

"If you know something, something current, I'll find the credits," he promised.

It was a long time before she spoke again and he watched as something shifted in her actions; she seemed to have matured between drinks. "I... I only met him once. Revan was... very persuasive. I would have followed him to the edges of the universe, if he would have let me."

"She."

She arched an eyebrow and assumed a demeaning tone, "I assure you the Dark Lord of the Sith was a man. He was tall and handsome; built and ...powerful." She toyed with her straw unconsciously, lost in a memory. The trance ended and her expression soured, reverting to the angry child. "You'd know that if you were friends! You're just another creepy Republic officer trying to rat me out! Leave me alone, old man."

"She," Carth repeated, dismissed by the informant. He watched her leave the bar and work her way across the room, stopping periodically to remind people what they owed her, before abandoning his own drink.

_'Go home, sister. You deserve a better life.'_

Warm, tropical air greeted him as he left the club and made his way back to the base. At the height of their mission, Revan had reached out and connected with so many people.

_'They were loyal. They would have died for you. How could they forget you so easily?'_

It wasn't the first time he'd been corrected; history was biased and he'd witnessed first-hand as Revan's legend contorted over time. Someone as influential and stubborn as Revan had to be male; it was natural to assume so. Without her presence, society refused to believe it had danced on strings pulled by a woman. Even he, who had stood by her side and pledged his existence, was starting to believe it had all been a delusion of grief.

Revan was the embodiment of fear, he'd discovered. To the Jedi, Revan was the fallen one who would tear the Order apart. To the Mandalorians, Revan was a warrior more brutal and cunning than they could imagine. To Bastila, Revan was a legacy she could never live up to. To Carth, Revan was woman: strong, beautiful, determined and burdened by fate.

_'Just like my wife.'_

Maybe they were right: maybe he had been tricked, tugged along by his heartstrings like a kath pup. He'd seen how Revan could control strong wills with a simple gesture, and he'd seen such manipulative acts used on the Sith and Jedi alike. Revan displayed similar command over Bastila, too.

_'Maybe... Maybe a kiss was all she needed to... Damned woman! You should have just killed me on the Star Forge.'_

He banished the thought.

Even if Revan had peered into his memories and used them to get close to him, she had touched him in a way that only his wife could. Like his wife's death, Revan's disappearance pained his continued existence.

It exhausted him to consider the measures she had taken to assure he would not follow her. She _was_ persuasive; he wondered how many of the stories she'd conjured herself. It would be typical of her to destroy _herself_ to protect him.

She had to have loved him. She had to come back. He just needed more patience.

Stories, the very fabric of time, had a nasty habit of stretching and fraying, eventually straying so far from their original form that they have to be tossed aside.

_'Stories. That's all they are.'_

He loved her too much to believe otherwise.

"She."


End file.
